


Alone

by abrassaxe



Category: Jupiter Ascending
Genre: Alcohol Use and Abuse, Gen, fluff mostly, vague suicide mention, which I understand is very un-fluffy but stay with me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-14 21:53:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7192262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abrassaxe/pseuds/abrassaxe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're drunk, Chicanery."<br/>"What else is new?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alone

“Tskalikin’s going to get himself killed.”  
  
Greeghan let out a rumbling sound of agreement as Chicanery Night knocked back another shot. ‘Don’t let me do more than five,’ he’d said. Then, before the sixth, he’d said ‘ _don’t you mother me_ ,’ and now was licking his lips of lucky seven, and finally beginning to look bleary-eyed.  
  
“He doesn’t know how to _talk_ to him,” Chicanery went on. “Blaming the Keepers… ‘It was a mistake.’ He said that to him. ‘It was a mistake.’” He clicked his tongue. “I told him to be _careful_.” Then, a little grimace. “I’ll bet you 10 C’s that you’re promoted soon. I’ll tell you what I told him.” Night frowned as if it were an exertion to focus his gaze on Greeghan’s face. “Be careful, Mr. Greeghan.” His thin lips pressed together, a sincere tautness around his eyes, before he went on to say something that Greeghan felt he hadn’t said to Tskalikin. “Please.”  
  
"You’re drunk, Chicanery.” Night’s laughter was scarce, but he compensated with an abundance of derisive chuckles. He let out one such huff of breath at Greeghan’s observation.  
  
“What else is new?” A limp-fingered wave signalled the bartender to bring another shooter, but Greeghan gave the scuttling splice a withering look that made sure they wouldn’t come to this end of the bar any time soon.  
  
“Don’t get snippy. You were almost a month –”  
  
“Clearly I am _overdue_.” Chicanery waved to the bartender again, who did their best to look busy.  
  
“Think you’ve been cut off,” said Greeghan.  
  
“I don’t get cut off. You’ve meddled.” Night scowled the long way up at him, then made the mistake that was attempting to stand. He teetered, precarious. “You’re a meddling meddler,” he declared, pointing. “You _meddle_.”  
  
“Articulate. Let’s get you home.”  
  
“I can get myself home, thank you very much.” And with that, Chicanery Night spun on his heel, overbalanced, and stumbled immediately into the table behind him. He doubled over it with a yelp and a half-uttered expletive. “I think you’ll find I still don’t need you, Greeghan,” he managed, slowly picking himself up, and dusting off his front (useless, given that what he’d fallen in was spilled beer). Greeghan stood, put a hand on his shoulder, careful to mind his grip. He could bruise Chicanery Night just by breathing on him.  
  
“Keep you company on the walk?” Greeghan offered, which was met with a snort, and a wave that could have been a beckoning or a dismissal. He paid their tab anyway, surprised when Chicanery did not slip away into the evening, to find a new hole to crawl into. It wouldn’t be the first time he had been shaken off that way.  
  
Neither one of them said anything as they walked, Greeghan steering a staggering Chicanery, who did not crumple onto the ground by the sheer force of will alone. He had seen him twice this drunk and deliver a report to Balem Abrasax. And _survive_. Most of the others didn’t know Chicanery had then spent the following three hours heaving up his insides, which suited him, and Greeghan didn’t mind knowing half as much as he had thought he might. It meant someone else had been there. Somewhere along the way, it had begun to rankle to think of Chicanery without someone looking out for him. Once, Greeghan had made the mistake of telling him that, and they hadn’t spoken for nearly a month.  
  
“You’re alone too much,” he’d said. Night had made a face like he might cry, and left him standing in front of the bar like he’d just been stood up. Their present silence was different. Mostly because Chicanery was too drunk to talk and stagger at the same time. He lurched to a sudden stop, and Greeghan almost tripped over him, leathery wings fanning out just a hair as he recovered his balance.  
  
“Stop… Stop.” Chicanery patted him twice on the back of the hand. “I don’t want to walk anymore.”  
  
“Could carry you.”  
  
“No flying?”  
  
“No flying.” Chicanery mulled this over, eyes half-closed. At this rate, he might fall asleep on his feet before he arrived at a decision. Then, he put his arms out. Like a child would. Or like Greeghan had come to understand that a child would. Lifting him was even easier than he had expected, and the warmth of Chicanery’s arms around his neck was very welcome. It would be easy to coil up around him and stay that way, awhile.  
  
“You smell like a boot,” Chicanery announced. Then he was quiet again, and stayed that way until their arrival at his on-refinery quarters, when he wriggled in Greeghan’s arms to get a better look at his face. “Do you know how old I am?”  
  
Greeghan couldn’t frown, really, but stared down at his slurring passenger, who continued without further prompting.  
  
“I’m almost a thousand years old,” he said. “I remember when Tskalikin was hatched. I remember when _you_ were hatched. It was raining diamonds, that day. Quite beautiful.” He closed his eyes, then shuddered, as his world likely gave a wicked spin, opened them again. “I don’t like to think about whether or not it will be raining when I bury you. Perhaps I’ll drink myself to death, so there’ll be no need to find out.” His squirming began anew, this time in a bid to be set down. He wobbled, catching himself on the doorframe. Greeghan considered asking if he was all right, but the answer struck him as sufficiently apparent.  
  
“Need help?” he asked instead. That was better, but Night still looked at him as if he’d said a dirty word.  
  
“No. No, that’s all for now, Mr. Greeghan.” The rat could be downright frosty when he had had too much. Greeghan couldn’t quite grimace, but his expression shifted against his will, in a way that Chicanery seemed able to read. He stretched out a hand, pawed at the air below Greeghan’s chin. With a death-grip on the doorframe at the same time, the pose was almost comical as he floundered between the door and almost eight feet of Sargorn. Greeghan bent to let that chalky hand find his face, and nearly had his eye poked for his trouble. It was still good, he decided, and didn’t complain.  
  
“That’s all for now,” said Chicanery again. “Tell Tskalikin to cry mercy, if Lord Balem puts him on the processing table.” Before another word could pass between them, he slipped through the door with agility unexpected of a man this far in his cups, leaving Greeghan with nothing but the sound of the lock. He rubbed at his face where Chicanery had touched. Then he cursed, nudged the door with his forehead, and left unwell enough alone.


End file.
